Shelly has been traveling for days through the dry deserts, on foot of course since he lost his rented horse in a not-very-profitable raid. He cursed his employer for skipping information concerning the would be raided party, in his head of course. The job was done, he got his fair share of reward and he was headed for Sand Flats to rest for eternity. Well a couple of days. His body screamed for eternal peace however.
Thirst was growing like cancer in his mind, his throat wasn't all that dried up as the cursed flat ground he trudged. The suffocating skull mask was keeping off dust, but the sweat inside was keeping his rage constantly and ever exponentially increasing. The crisscrossed leather holsters were starting to slice through his ass, he needed to really rest in the most literal of sense of the word.
Sand Flats. Hell is not so far away from here. The sign read the first, he assumed the latter to be scribbled on the sign just outside the dead looking town. There were a couple horses outside what looked like a cheerful Saloon, he needed the comfort of a bed or two. A moan and a flesh perhaps. He needed a sour drink to quench his abnormal thirst first, maybe even get intoxicated beyond what his self conscious persona allowed to keep up his ill-seen baddassery.
Shelly the Interloper, regular hat, scary Indian fashioned skull mask, huge unnecessarily flamboyant scarlet scarf, and black bloodied boots waltzed into the Saloon. Subtle music was playing, something classic he thought.
He walked slowly to a table by the piano, he saw some ruckus going on by the bar which he chose to ignore. He hated, he utterly despised cards, magicians and men who looked at his possible bedmates. He pulled a chair and sat, not forgetting to untie the pistols holster and placing them on the table with a resounding thud.
"What's a poor chap gotsa be doin' to earn a drink 'round here?" He yelled in a politely rude tone, staring lustfully at one of the chubby whores by the window.
Thirst was growing like cancer in his mind, his throat wasn't all that dried up as the cursed flat ground he trudged. The suffocating skull mask was keeping off dust, but the sweat inside was keeping his rage constantly and ever exponentially increasing. The crisscrossed leather holsters were starting to slice through his ass, he needed to really rest in the most literal of sense of the word.
Sand Flats. Hell is not so far away from here. The sign read the first, he assumed the latter to be scribbled on the sign just outside the dead looking town. There were a couple horses outside what looked like a cheerful Saloon, he needed the comfort of a bed or two. A moan and a flesh perhaps. He needed a sour drink to quench his abnormal thirst first, maybe even get intoxicated beyond what his self conscious persona allowed to keep up his ill-seen baddassery.
Shelly the Interloper, regular hat, scary Indian fashioned skull mask, huge unnecessarily flamboyant scarlet scarf, and black bloodied boots waltzed into the Saloon. Subtle music was playing, something classic he thought.
He walked slowly to a table by the piano, he saw some ruckus going on by the bar which he chose to ignore. He hated, he utterly despised cards, magicians and men who looked at his possible bedmates. He pulled a chair and sat, not forgetting to untie the pistols holster and placing them on the table with a resounding thud.
"What's a poor chap gotsa be doin' to earn a drink 'round here?" He yelled in a politely rude tone, staring lustfully at one of the chubby whores by the window.